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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308992">the hazards of love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall'>curtaincall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunting, Humor, M/M, Pining, Possession, Post-Canon, oh no they have to listen to the tale of star-crossed lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:15:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a ghost turns up in Aziraphale's bookshop and requests help finishing her business on Earth, he doesn't anticipate getting sucked into an uncomfortably familiar story...or coming altogether too close to some long-suppressed truths.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was originally posted as a series of connected snippets on Tumblr in response to racketghost's 13 Days of Halloween prompts!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It began with a fall.</p><p>Not a <em>Fall </em>fall, nothing so dramatic as that—a soft thump, at most. The sound, such as it was, barely registered in Aziraphale’s ears, so intent was he on his crossword. Years of practiced inattentiveness had proven useful, in his line of work—by far the easiest way to ignore a customer was to simply and genuinely not notice them—and there was a particularly clever little section of the grid he was determined to puzzle out.</p><p>It wasn’t until several hours later, when he’d headed back to mix up a pot of cocoa, that he spotted the book lying flat and spine-up on the floor.</p><p>Aziraphale <em>tsk</em>ed at it. “Now, then,” he said, “however did you get there?”</p><p>The book, an unexceptional copy of <em>The Castle of Otranto</em>, was unsurprisingly silent. It was, apparently, beyond the reach of even angelic powers to coax books into giving up words not their own.</p><p>Aziraphale, mostly unbothered, picked up the book, smoothed out the newly-formed creases in its pages, and replaced it carefully on the shelf.</p><p>Less than an hour later, it happened again.     </p><p>This time, Aziraphale was engaged in a rather elaborate daydream involving a snake (any resemblance to demons of his acquaintance being, of course, entirely coincidental) and the ticklish bit just underneath his own navel, and the thump was loud enough to break it off just as things were beginning to get really interesting, tongue-wise.</p><p>“Drat,” said Aziraphale crossly, and stood up (with all appropriate care).</p><p>This time, the fallen book was a leatherbound copy of <em>Hamlet</em>, signed by a certain stage actor and inscribed to Aziraphale personally, and he was more than a little annoyed to see it covered in dust. (He was also entirely capable of ignoring the fact that the dust on the floor had built up over a half-century of putting off sweeping just til tomorrow.)</p><p>He resolved to sweep tomorrow and replaced <em>Hamlet </em>on the shelf. </p><p>
  <em>Thud.</em>
</p><p>“What the <em>devil</em>…” Aziraphale muttered, and headed off in search of the new sound.</p><p>It was <em>The Turn of the Screw</em>, this time. Aziraphale’s thoughts shifted from irritation to curiosity. Two books falling in a row could be attributed to coincidence; three, and either a tectonic shift had occurred while he’d been working towards a quake of his own, or something else was afoot.</p><p>He slowly slid the Henry James back into its place, careful not to make too much noise, so that he could hear…</p><p>And, yes, there it was, a faint rustling sound, coming from a few shelves away. Aziraphale darted over and was just in time to see the next book fall, pages splaying open as it hit the floor.</p><p>He turned to the title page.</p><p>“<em>A Christmas Carol</em>,” Aziraphale said, aloud. “Well. Some patterns, I suppose, cannot be ignored.” He cleared his throat, and said, in a voice loud enough to fill the entire shop: </p><p>“Pardon me, but is there a ghost present?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale had, of course, encountered ghosts before. Not very often, mind—beings that fell on the more occult side of the spectrum had a tendency to shy away from his divinity—but he did at least have some idea what he was dealing with.</p><p>Because the spectre that had now manifested before him, the figure of a young woman in Victorian dress, was definitely your actual ghost.</p><p>“Ah—” said Aziraphale, a trifle haltingly. “Thank you very much for making yourself visible, my dear. I do so prefer conversing this way over the medium of, erm, book-toppling.”</p><p>The ghost spread her hands in apparent apology.</p><p>“Oh—yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, “you won’t be able to speak, will you, not till I…” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the skeleton key that unlocked the drawers where he kept some of his more esoteric possessions. (Along with takeaway receipts, rubber bands, loose batteries, and the sundry other odds and ends that had a tendency to collect in top drawers.) </p><p>He brought out a packet of yellowish-green powder and a jar of silver liquid, poured some of the liquid into a bowl, and mixed in a pinch of the powder. Within a few seconds, smoke began wafting up.</p><p>“There, now,” Aziraphale said, half-under his breath, “let’s see…”</p><p>He carried the bowl towards the ghost, carefully fanning the smoke in her direction.</p><p>“That ought to do the trick, I fancy. Can you try and speak, then?”</p><p>“Ye—ooh!” The spectre coughed. “Sorry. Bit rusty, it seems.”</p><p>“Entirely understandable,” Aziraphale said. “Now, then, might I ask what it is you’re doing here, and why you felt the need to go about knocking Gothic literature off the shelves?”</p><p>The ghost winced. “I <em>am </em>sorry about that,” she said. “But I needed to get your attention. I am, well, I’m trapped here, on Earth, because it would appear I have unfinished business here. And I should like you to help me finish it.”</p><p>This was hardly unexpected, for a ghost. Aziraphale nodded. “What sort of business, then?”</p><p>The girl looked at him solemnly. “It’s my true love,” she said. “I need you to help me find him.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. graveyard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Your…true love,” Aziraphale said.</p>
<p>The ghost nodded. “Yes. We were…torn apart, you see. My family, they didn’t approve of him, and I—well, I had not the strength to resist them, and broke things off. I repented of it soon after, but he had gone, and soon afterwards I fell ill and died, and became as you see me now. I believe I am tethered to this plane by my regret at what transpired, and I need to see him again and express my sorrow before I am able to pass beyond.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale said, conscious of a pricking in the back of his own throat. “I—I’m terribly sorry.” He swallowed. “You want, then, to find the spirit of this, ah, this young man?”</p>
<p>“If I can.”</p>
<p>“I can certainly do my best to help,” Aziraphale said. “I rather think…well, before we go about looking for his spirit, I think it might be wise to locate his body.”</p>
<p>A few hours’ research and a short journey later, and Aziraphale and his new late acquaintance (whose name, she informed him, was Isabel) found themselves in the graveyard where, if sources were to be trusted, Isabel’s paramour rested.</p>
<p>“Here we are, then,” Aziraphale said, stopping in front of a gravestone. “Robert Compline, 1857-1925.”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>Bobby</em>,” Isabel sighed, and Aziraphale turned away to give her a moment of privacy, even as he internally reflected that one would think a ghost, of all people, wouldn’t place overmuch importance upon a headstone.</p>
<p>As he turned, though, he caught sight, out of the corner of his eye, of a lanky figure, which seemed to be drawing closer, and which moved with a very particular and familiar gait—</p>
<p>“Angel!”</p>
<p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, peering ahead into the darkness. “Whatever are <em>you </em>doing here?”</p>
<p>Crowley shrugged. “CDEs.”</p>
<p>“Pardon?”</p>
<p>“Continuing Demon Education credits. I’m doing a practicum on Lurking Like You Mean It. Boring as anything.”</p>
<p>“You actually <em>do </em>your professional development trainings?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.</p>
<p>Crowley scowled. “Well, I hadn’t been, had I, and then they did an audit and found out. So. Lurking it is. But, anyway, what are you doing here, you and your, uh, translucent friend?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale felt himself, unaccountably, flush, and was heartily glad of the masking darkness. “I’m helping her find her, ah, her true love. So that she can pass on.”</p>
<p>“Are you now?” Crowley asked. “Oi!” he called, waving at the ghost. “You do know it’s the twenty-first century, right? Your fellow’s definitely dead by now!”</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t she know it was the twenty-first century?” Aziraphale demanded.</p>
<p>Crowley waved a hand up and down. “If the only person she’s seen is <em>you</em>, stands to reason she’d think we were a good hundred years behind, wouldn’t she?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale refused to dignify this with a response, largely because he hadn’t got one.</p>
<p>“So,” Crowley said, audibly inhaling. “What’re we doing about it, then?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. vampires</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well,” Aziraphale said, “I rather thought we could begin by attempting to locate Mr. Compline’s soul. There are, of course, limited options as to location—”</p>
<p>“Right, right,” Crowley said. “Heaven, Hell, or stuck here. Like her.” He jerked a thumb towards Isabel, who was still gazing wistfully at the gravestone.</p>
<p>“Precisely. So, actually, if you wouldn’t mind helping out a bit, could you perhaps just check your records…”</p>
<p>“Sure, yeah,” Crowley said, “beats lurking, I mean.”</p>
<p>“I would imagine so,” Aziraphale said. “Excellent, then, I’ll check my side of things, and we can meet back here in…let’s say two hours? Should that be enough time?”</p>
<p>“Think so, yeah,” Crowley said, “but d’you want to meet <em>here</em>?”</p>
<p>“Is there something wrong with it?”</p>
<p>“Well, it is a graveyard, so. Not exactly a romantic sort of spot, now, is it?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean by <em>that</em>?” Aziraphale asked sharply, altogether too aware of the way his blood pulsed suddenly in his veins.</p>
<p>Crowley frowned. “Well, you want to hook your undead buddy back up with her boyfriend, don’t you? Might as well do it somewhere fitting.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He felt a prickle of disappointment and strove immediately to cover it. “Didn’t think you’d care,” he said, more waspishly than he intended, and regretted it instantly when pain flitted across Crowley’s face. “At any rate,” he said, floundering desperately for something to latch onto, “don’t say <em>undead</em>, that makes her sound like a, a <em>vampire</em>, or something, her name is <em>Isabel </em>and she’s a <em>ghost</em>.”</p>
<p>“Right, whatever,” Crowley said, voice flat enough that Aziraphale wasn’t able to tell whether he was still offended or not. “Anyway. If you think a cemetery’s good enough for whatever sort of tearful lovers’ reunion you’re planning to orchestrate—”</p>
<p>“No,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right. <em>The grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace</em>, hmm?”</p>
<p>He remembered the context of the poem too late, and felt himself grow red.</p>
<p>The reference was, thankfully, apparently lost on Crowley. “If you’re going to get all quote-y on me, I’m changing my mind about helping,” he said.</p>
<p>“Yes—no, of course,” Aziraphale said hastily. “Um. Shall we meet back at the shop, then? Unless you think—”</p>
<p>“Shop’s fine,” Crowley said. “Two hours?”</p>
<p>“If you think that’s enough—”</p>
<p>“Oh yes,” Crowley said, and then— “Time’s winged chariot hurries near, yeah?”</p>
<p>He turned away before Aziraphale could see his expression, and walked away into the night.</p>
<p>He <em>had </em>recognized the dratted poem, then. </p>
<p>“Bother,” said Aziraphale, and went to go tell Isabel the plan. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. witches</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale was less than surprised to discover that there was no record of Robert Compline in Heaven. (Or, well, there were records of several Robert Complines, it wasn’t that unusual of a name—he and Crowley actually had a longstanding game where they tried to pick out unique human names from their respective sides’ lists—but none of them were the one he was looking for.) It seemed Isabel wasn’t the only one whose soul considered their affair as unfinished business.</p>
<p>“No luck my end,” Crowley said, collapsing onto the sofa. “Yours?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said.</p>
<p>“So he’s a ghost, then,” Crowley said. “Could be haunting it up anywhere on Earth. Where do we start?”</p>
<p>“It <em>is </em>frustrating that they shouldn’t have come as a package set, as it were,” Aziraphale conceded. “But we <em>can </em>find him, I’m certain. We just have to think about…places of emotional significance. Best to ask Isabel.” He raised his voice. “Isabel? Could you come here, please?”</p>
<p>She floated over from the window. “Have you found him? Have you found Bobby?”</p>
<p>“Not as such,” Aziraphale said. “Or, rather, we’ve found that he isn’t in Heaven or in Hell, which means his spirit is also trapped in this plane, searching for yours. He’s likely haunting somewhere that would have been important to him, perhaps somewhere strongly associated with his memories of you. Ghosts usually gravitate to such places.”</p>
<p>“Come to think of it,” Crowley cut in, “why were you haunting this shop, anyway? Doesn’t seem as if it’d be very emotionally significant. To you,” he added, hastily.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” Isabel said, with that same dreamy cadence that Aziraphale was beginning to find just the slightest bit irritating. “I used to come here all the time, when I was alive. Because I was longing for Bobby, you see, despite it all, and so I was always reading stories about star-crossed lovers, you know, people who overcame the objections of family and society in order to be together. And this shop had by far the best collection. It was a bit hard to find, at first, I remember, behind all these dry old tomes about witch-burning and false prophets, but once I stumbled upon it there were simply scads of romantic novels about love triumphing over all external forces.”</p>
<p>“<em>Were </em>there, now?” Crowley asked, sounding entirely too interested.</p>
<p>“Ah—oh yes,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, “I do remember, I believe I bought up some, erm, some other seller’s stock, must have been just around the time you came here, then, not my usual sort of thing at all but they did turn a pretty profit—”</p>
<p>Isabel shook her head. “No, no,” she said, frowning, “I remember, I used to just come to the shop and sit and read for hours, and the one time I tried to buy one of the books you snatched it away and said it was your private collection and not for sale.”</p>
<p>“<em>Really</em>,” Crowley said, delighted, “<em>do </em>go on, I beg you—”</p>
<p>“I fail to see how this is relevant,” Aziraphale said. “We’ve established why my shop is emotionally significant, but, erm, it doesn’t seem as though Mr. Compline would ever have visited it with you. So. Other prospects, please.”</p>
<p>They compiled a list of everywhere Isabel deemed important to her and Robert’s relationship.</p>
<p>“What now?” Crowley asked. “Just—go place to place and hope someone fleshless starts doing the <em>what light from yonder window breaks</em> bit at the sight of her?”</p>
<p>“I do believe that’s our best option, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Shall we?” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. costumes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale had decided that it would be most efficient to start with the easiest locations to access, and go on from there, rather than waste time trying to determine what was the most likely place for Robert Compline’s spirit to be haunting.</p>
<p>However, after visiting the sites of all the parties, restaurants, and parks Isabel and Bobby had gone to together, it became clear that there was only one good option left.</p>
<p>“Your house,” Aziraphale said, placing a finger on the map spread out on his desk. “You think he might be there?”</p>
<p>Isabel nodded. “That’s where—after I agreed to give him up, after I gave in to my family—I wrote him a letter, breaking things off, and he came to my house, he met me in the gardens and begged me to reconsider, and I said that I was terribly sorry but that I couldn’t, and that was the last time we ever saw each other.”</p>
<p>There was a pause. Aziraphale spent it looking anywhere but at Crowley.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, at last, unable to bear the silence any longer, “if it’s still a private residence we might have a bit of a job getting in—”</p>
<p>But Crowley, who’d begun typing the address into his phone to get directions, was already shaking his head. “Not a private residence,” he said. “Living history museum.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Aziraphale said, delighted, “well, that’s wonderful, it means all we have to do is go in as visitors—”</p>
<p>Crowley frowned. “Might not work. You know how these historic house museums are. All the good bits’re blocked off with rope.”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me that <em>you</em>, of all people, would let a <em>rope </em>get in the way of—”</p>
<p>“No,” Crowley said, scornfully, “but I don’t much fancy getting scolded by some security guard on a power trip, do I?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale thought for a moment. “I know,” he said, lighting up. “We might get questioned going into the private areas if we’re there as <em>guests</em>. But no one would think twice if we’re there as <em>actors</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” Crowley said, but Aziraphale had already darted to the wardrobe. </p>
<p>“Always rather fancied myself for theatricals,” he said, flipping through the coats. “And you and I have an advantage, of course, having actually been around during the Victorian era…” He found the white topper he’d been looking for—a trifle crushed but otherwise none the worse for wear, and swapped out his bowtie for a cravat. “There we are, now. Should be enough to pass, I think.”</p>
<p>Crowley groaned. “I can’t believe you’re really suggesting that we pretend to be <em>historical reenactors</em>—”</p>
<p>“Go on, then,” Aziraphale said, wisely ignoring this. “I don’t suppose you’ve kept any of your nineteenth-century clothing, but it scarcely matters given that you just…miracle things up, anyway. Unless you’ve forgotten the fashion?”</p>
<p>“Impossible to forget Victorian fashion with <em>you </em>around, angel,” said Crowley, and snapped his fingers with an air of being greatly put-upon. “Better?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale glanced at him—black coat tightly buttoned, hair slightly longer, hands covered by leather gloves—and felt as though he had to look away at once or risk saying something sentimental and ridiculous.</p>
<p>“Much,” he said, busying himself with his own waistcoat. “Shall we go, then?”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. bonfire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As it turned out, all the dress-up had been for nothing. When they arrived at Isabel’s old house, just after sundown, it appeared there was a sort of outdoor party going on, with crowds of people holding drinks and clustering around a bonfire. </p>
<p>“It was in the gardens that you said you met him, that last time, yes?” Aziraphale muttered as they approached.</p>
<p>Isabel nodded. “Very near here.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who hadn’t, for whatever reason, miracled himself back into his usual clothing yet. “Do you sense anything…occult?” he asked.</p>
<p>Crowley frowned. “Dunno, do I, it’s not exactly like I’ve got spooky radar—”</p>
<p>“I thought that was <em>exactly </em>what it was like, actually, if the way I—”</p>
<p>Crowley reached out a hand. “Shh,” he said, half-hissing, “I think—”</p>
<p>He headed towards the house, fixing the hedges that stood in his way with a purposeful glare until they parted. Aziraphale didn’t bother; the hedges were simply overcome with a strong sense of guilt and let him pass, thinking all the while that perhaps they had better call their hedge mothers.</p>
<p>“Getting warmer, I think,” Crowley said, face lit up with interest as he ran a hand along the exterior of the house. “There’s something…here!” He tapped a brick. “Right here.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, right here?” Aziraphale asked. “It’s just a brick. He can’t be a brick.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Crowley said, “but there’s definitely some sort of spirit here.”</p>
<p>Isabel pressed her incorporeal cheek to the brick. “Bobby?” she asked. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”</p>
<p>“We’ve got to draw him out somehow,” Aziraphale said. </p>
<p>“Don’t think the Thisbe routine’s going to do it?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said. “So it had better be one of us.”</p>
<p>“By which you mean me.”</p>
<p>“By which I do indeed mean you.”</p>
<p>Crowley looked back towards the fire. “Right,” he said, “here’s a thought…”</p>
<p>He snapped his fingers, drawing a flame from the bonfire towards them and levitating it above his open palm. With evident care, he brought the flame close to the brick. “Come on then,” he muttered. “Nice and easy.”</p>
<p>There was a quiet sort of pop, and the flame in Crowley’s hand rearranged itself into the approximate shape of a face.</p>
<p>“Hello, Bobby,” said Crowley.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. ouija</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“How are you doing that?” Aziraphale demanded.</p>
<p>“Spirit was trapped inside the bricks,” Crowley explained. “Needed a source of energy to get it out. Bingo, fire, using the thermodynamic power to bring the spirit into visible form.”</p>
<p>“Using the <em>thermodynamic</em>—”</p>
<p>“Okay, sincerely, I really <em>don’t </em>actually know how I’m doing this and I’m a bit worried that if I think about it too hard it’ll stop working, so can we please move on?”</p>
<p>“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry. Ah—hello, Robert.”</p>
<p>The flame-face moved what must have been its mouth, to no audible effect.</p>
<p>“Thermodynamic power not working out for you, then?” Aziraphale asked.</p>
<p>“Apparently not so far as talking goes.”</p>
<p> “Well, I don’t suppose we’ll get very far like this, then.”</p>
<p>“Can’t tell why he isn’t just a normal ghost,” Crowley said, examining the flame. “Like her.”</p>
<p>He indicated Isabel, who had drawn back a bit at the sudden appearance of her erstwhile paramour’s face in the flames, and was only now slowly edging closer to them. </p>
<p>“Perhaps it has to do with his having been here for so long,” Aziraphale said, indicating the house. “He can’t take fully human shape any longer.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t much matter why he’s like this, does it, point is, how are we supposed to fix them if they can’t even communicate?”</p>
<p>“We’ll have to find a better vessel for his spirit. Surely there’s a step up from, ah, brick. Or even flame.”</p>
<p>Crowley made a face. “Or, you know, we could just work on talking to him as a spirit. Plenty of ways to do that, aren’t there? Have a good old-fashioned seance, break out the ouija board…”</p>
<p>Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I may have indulged in a bit of apostasy, of late,” he admitted, “but I really don’t think I as an angel ought to be dabbling in the occult to quite that extent. Not if there’s another option.”</p>
<p>Crowley looked at him for a moment, eyes hidden behind his glasses, the light from the flame in his hands reflecting off the lenses in quick flickers. “Still?” </p>
<p>“Still what?”</p>
<p>“Still not up for a bit of <em>dabbling in the occult</em>, even after—everything—”</p>
<p>“It’s not <em>personal</em>, it’s just—” Aziraphale found himself unable to articulate exactly what it was, <em>just</em>. </p>
<p><em>Perhaps there isn’t anything,</em> he thought, the idea scratching at the back of his mind like a cat trying to get in. <em>Perhaps there isn’t any reason I shouldn’t—dabble in the occult. Perhaps there never was.</em></p>
<p>“It’s all right, angel,” Crowley said, before Aziraphale was able to finish. “I have a better idea.”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. possession</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you remember,” Crowley said, not looking at Aziraphale, “how you, er—found a host, that one time? Well, I was thinking, ghosts’re supernatural beings, aren’t they, can’t they just—inhabit bodies, too?” </p>
<p>“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “And if Robert’s spirit were hosted by a <em>person</em>, instead of a flame, or a brick, he’d be able to speak to Isabel, and they could resolve whatever hangs between them.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, exactly.”</p>
<p>“Although,” Aziraphale said, glancing over towards the party, “if you’re suggesting that we kidnap a human without their consent, I’m afraid—that is, what I did was under very specific circumstances and I really can’t condone—”</p>
<p>Crowley shook his head. “No, I thought—I mean, why bother with a human? You’n’I are right here.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, a trifle shakily, “you think that <em>we</em>—”</p>
<p>“Should let the ghosts use us as vessels, yeah. Seems like that’d probably be the easiest thing, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>“I suppose we know quite well that we can permit other consciousnesses into our corporations,” Aziraphale said dryly. He was conscious of some deep-seated resistance to Crowley’s idea. It was wholly irrational—after all, Crowley was entirely right that it would be a great deal easier to use what they had at hand. And it wasn’t as though they’d be entirely powerless, even with the ghosts speaking through them—at the first sign of anything going amiss, they’d be more than able to evict the spirits and regain control. So he pushed aside his reluctance and nodded. “Very well, then. Ah—Isabel, my dear?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“I believe we have a way for you to speak to Robert, here. If you’d like to just slip into my corporation, erm, Crowley can take him into his, and then the two of you ought to be able to converse through us.”        </p>
<p>Isabel made a clapping motion with her immaterial hands. “Oh, that’s wonderful, thank you so much!”</p>
<p>Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. “Same time, then?”</p>
<p>Crowley’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, angel,” he said, softly. “Together.”</p>
<p>“Right,” Aziraphale said, “ah, shall we count down? Three, two, one—” He held out his hands, and Isabel came swooping in.</p>
<p>It was an odd sensation, having someone else in your body; Aziraphale had taken the role of guest, before, of course, but this was his first time playing host. He felt rather as though he’d been shoved into the passenger seat of a car that he didn’t know how to drive (so, a car). </p>
<p>He was still able to see out of his own eyes, though, and looked over at Crowley to see that the flame had disappeared, presumably because Robert was now inhabiting his corporation. </p>
<p>“Robert?” he heard his own voice say.</p>
<p>“Isabel!” It was surprisingly heartrending to hear the depth of love in Robert-in-Crowley’s voice. It was also supremely disquieting to realize just how similar it sounded to what Aziraphale thought of as Crowley’s normal voice.</p>
<p>“Robert,” Isabel said, steering them towards the others and taking their hands. “I’m so sorry.”</p>
<p>And the reason for Aziraphale’s earlier reluctance became astoundingly clear.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. legends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No, Isabel,” Robert-in-Crowley was saying, lifting her hands to his mouth and kissing them lightly (and that was <em>Crowley</em>’s mouth, on Aziraphale’s hands, and from his little space in the back of his own mind Aziraphale felt the stirrings of an emotion that combined elation and disappointment). “I’m the one who should be sorry. I asked altogether too much of you, and I should not have done so.”</p>
<p>Isabel-in-Aziraphale shook her head. “I wanted to go,” she said. “But my family—I don’t know what would have happened. I wish I were braver.”</p>
<p>“Don’t wish that,” Robert said firmly. “I’m only sorry that we had to part in anger. I should have spent that time, here, in the gardens, being grateful that you’d come to meet me at all, not angry that you wouldn’t stand by our engagement.”</p>
<p>“I never told you this,” Isabel said, “you probably never knew, but I tried—I tried to run away. To come after you. I snuck out one night, but it was dark, and I had no experience of travelling on my own, and I got lost—caught in a thunderstorm. They found me the next day, soaked through and chilled to the bone, sleeping up against a tree. That’s how I fell ill, at the end. That’s why I died. I was trying to come to you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Isabel,” Robert said, clutching Aziraphale’s hands still tighter, “if only I were worth it—”</p>
<p>Aziraphale internally rolled his eyes. All right, yes, he’d found Isabel and Robert’s story <em>affecting</em>, on some level, no need to look too deeply into the likely causes of <em>that</em>, but the thing had always teetered on the edge between emotional and overwrought, and it seemed things were taking a turn for the melodramatic. He wondered whether Crowley was thinking the same thing, imagined him pacing around inside his own mind muttering <em>can we get on with it, please?</em></p>
<p>“My love,” Isabel asked, and Aziraphale tried not to think about the way the words felt in his mouth, “can you forgive me?”</p>
<p>“Isabel, my angel,” (oh no, oh <em>no</em>, oh <em>nononono</em>) “there’s nothing to forgive.”</p>
<p>Isabel-in-Aziraphale pulled her hands out of Crowley’s, bringing them up to either side of his face, and lifted Aziraphale’s mouth to meet his—</p>
<p>Crowley jerked violently away. “Right,” he said, and it was clearly Crowley in charge now, “that’s enough of <em>that</em>. You all settled?” He waited a moment. “Good, so your unfinished business is all sorted, then, off you go, yeah?”</p>
<p>A wisp of light rose up from Crowley’s body, floating away into the heavens. Aziraphale felt Isabel leave him, at the same time, and as he lurched back into control of himself, he saw a similar light heading up from where he was standing. </p>
<p>The two lights flickered in the sky, moved towards each other, joined into one bright spark, and winked out entirely.</p>
<p>“Well,” Aziraphale said, after a moment of increasingly tense silence. “That seems to have worked itself out rather nicely.”</p>
<p>Crowley grunted assent.</p>
<p>“I’m, erm…I’m sorry about that,” Aziraphale said. “That Isabel—”</p>
<p>“Yeah, forget it,” Crowley said, and stalked off into the night without a backward glance.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. haunt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale had gone home, afterwards, and cleaned up all the fallen books that Isabel had knocked about, and sat at his desk for a very long time, not thinking about anything at all. </p>
<p>He most especially didn’t think about the fact that Crowley had revolted against the spirit occupying his body and sent him soaring into the heavens, apparently just to avoid having to kiss Aziraphale. Or about the tightness in his voice when he’d said “Forget it,” or about the fact that he’d gone off without another word.</p>
<p>If Aziraphale had been thinking about those things—which he wasn’t—he might also have wondered what, exactly, he’d done wrong. He knew he’d accidentally offended Crowley over and over again throughout the years; he’d been trying, of late, to be more aware of what might be hurtful. To avoid denying their friendship, to resist implying that Crowley might be better off as an angel, to show, however he could, that he’d side with Crowley a hundred times over, if it came to it again. </p>
<p>The truth of it was, most people didn’t listen to Aziraphale. He’d spent so much of his long life thinking that what he said didn’t matter much to anyone that it had become difficult to see just how very much his words <em>did </em>matter to the one person who did listen. To understand that even if he felt frustrated and powerless most of the time, he nevertheless did have power, of a sort, over Crowley. </p>
<p>It was a responsibility he’d become more aware of, due to recent events, and he’d been striving with all his might to prove himself worthy of it. </p>
<p>But try as he might, Aziraphale couldn’t find anything in that interaction back at Isabel’s house that could account for Crowley’s behavior. Oh, he’d put his foot in it with the <em>dabbling in the occult</em> comment, all right, but they’d got past that quickly enough, and it didn’t seem likely Crowley would have left in a huff over <em>that</em>. No, it had to be something later. But it was most unfair, really, because Aziraphale hadn’t even been in control of his body. Crowley ought to be cross with <em>Isabel</em>, if anyone. </p>
<p>However, just because Aziraphale thought something ought, logically, to be a certain way didn’t automatically make it so (see: the grocery chain that had stubbornly refused to let him exploit the loophole he’d found for endless stainless-steel cookware under their rewards scheme, despite his argument being perfectly sound), and all the evidence indicated that Crowley was upset because of Aziraphale.</p>
<p>But it was very difficult to go about making amends when one wasn’t even certain what one had done, and so Aziraphale let the matter pass out of his mind, and busied himself with a Wilkie Collins re-read.</p>
<p>It was three days before Crowley turned up at the bookshop. Aziraphale half-expected him to still be sulky, but he seemed perfectly normal—happy, even.</p>
<p>“Thought I’d stop by and see if you fancied lunch.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale inhaled deeply and stood up from his chair. “No, thank you.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. magic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No?” Crowley repeated, visibly surprised. “I—all right.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, crossing the shop to where he stood in the doorway. “But I can’t let you just act like nothing’s happened.”</p>
<p>Crowley frowned. “Uh, of the two of us, I’m not exactly the one that shies away from obvious truths, angel, so, whatever it is that you think I’m avoiding, you can just ask.” He spread his hands.</p>
<p>Aziraphale echoed the motion in reverse, drawing his own hands together in front of him. He’d thought—well, he wasn’t entirely certain <em>what </em>he’d thought would happen, when he’d decided to take a stand. Perhaps just have everything magically fix itself. He’d half-expected Crowley to open up, say whatever it was that had been bothering him, and then Aziraphale could apologize, or defend himself, and they could have it out and all would, presumably, be back to normal. He hadn’t imagined that <em>he</em>’d have to be the one to broach the matter.</p>
<p>Crowley was right, he thought bitterly, about which of them liked to ignore obvious truths.</p>
<p>Still, it was Aziraphale who’d decided not to let things pass, and so it was Aziraphale who would have to say what he was thinking.</p>
<p>“At the house, the other night,” he began, and saw Crowley flinch in reaction. “I gathered you were…angry with me, and I’d like to apologize, but I’m afraid I don’t…if you could just tell me what it is that I’ve done, please?”</p>
<p>Crowley shook his head violently. “No, no, you haven’t—I’m not <em>angry </em>with you, I wasn’t angry, you didn’t—<em>do </em>anything, nothing to apologize for. At all.”</p>
<p>“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale said, “I’m not <em>stupid</em>. You don’t need to hide—that is, I thought that surely, now, after everything, we could be honest with each other?”</p>
<p>Crowley groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m—I’m not being dishonest, all right, I’m not lying, I’m not angry with you. Me—storming off, it wasn’t because—you <em>did</em> anything.”</p>
<p>“Oh, please,” Aziraphale said, frustration growing, “you can’t claim it’s not about me when you evicted a <em>ghost </em>just to avoid kissing me!”</p>
<p>Crowley made a series of sputtering noises like a car running out of petrol. “I—you—fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, you’re not taking that <em>personally</em>, are you?”</p>
<p>“How on earth am I supposed <em>not </em>to take it personally? Of course it’s perfectly fine that you didn’t want to kiss me, but you can’t blame me for being a bit <em>offended</em>.”</p>
<p>“It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you!” Crowley snapped. “It’s that I didn’t want to do it like <em>that</em>.”</p>
<p>“What is <em>that </em>supposed to mean?”</p>
<p>Crowley looked stricken. “I—” He pushed his glasses up, rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead. “If I’m going to kiss you, I want to kiss <em>you</em>, angel, not some moth-eaten Victorian. Well. Not some <em>other </em>moth-eaten Victorian. But—it wouldn’t have been <em>us</em>, not really, if I’d let them do it, it wouldn’t have been real, and I wanted—I wanted it to be real.”</p>
<p>“Please,” Aziraphale said, hearing the crack in his own voice. “It’s us now, so please—do it for real.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. ritual</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Crowley blinked for a moment in evident disbelief, but another second later and there he was, taking Aziraphale’s face gently between his hands and kissing him soundly on the mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighed, half from relief, half from pleasure, and let his own hands wrap around the back of Crowley’s neck, pulling him in even closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stayed like that for some time, trading soft, wordless kisses, interlocking their bodies in as many places as possible (which was a good many, given that one member of the duo had supernaturally serpentine limbs). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At last, Crowley pulled away. His cheeks were flushed, his hair messy, and his glasses sitting askew on top of his head. He was also radiating sheer joy, the smile on his face so bright that it almost hurt Aziraphale to look at. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Aziraphale asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I hadn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, had I, you left rather abruptly—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley shook his head. “I don’t mean after the other day. I mean—well, generally speaking I mean anytime over the past sixty centuries, but more specifically since—” he waved his hand in a motion that was apparently supposed to encompass the world ending-but-not and their joint defiance of Heaven and Hell— “all </span>
  <em>
    <span>that? </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s not exactly like I’ve been </span>
  <em>
    <span>subtle, </span>
  </em>
  <span>have I, you have to have known that if you ever hinted you wanted...you have to have known that I’d come running.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I suppose,” Aziraphale admitted, “but I was—well, you’ve always been the one who asks, you know. And part of me wondered, </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, if he wants things to change, why doesn’t he ask?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I really thought I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I didn’t want things to change,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully. “I like where we’ve got to, lately. I like just...going to lunch, and drinking together, and not worrying about anyone breathing down our necks. I didn’t see any reason to disrupt our little rituals, not for something uncertain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t have to disrupt anything,” Crowley said firmly. “If you think I’ve any intention of stopping going to lunch with you—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speaking of which,” Aziraphale said, “I believe you came here with an invitation…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Crowley asked. “You want to go to lunch </span>
  <em>
    <span>now?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” said Aziraphale, considering the matter. “Perhaps in a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” said Crowley, leaning in to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”   </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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